The Tree
by NairobiWonders
Summary: Joan and Sherlock find their way under the auspices of an old oak tree. - Fluffy Joanlock. Chapter 8! Final chapter! Thank you all for sticking with it and for all your kind comments - it is all very, very much appreciated.
1. Chapter 1

Case over, crime solved, criminal incarcerated. All that was left to do was the file cleanup. Sherlock sat at the computer printing out photos and screen shots for documentation purposes. Joan, in the adjoining room, had the physical file sprawled out on the floor in front of her, placing reports and analysis in chronological order. He had been watching her out of the corner of his eye as he was wont to do.

"Watson, what say we take a break and have a cup?" He boomed in her direction.

Joan looked across the room at him. This was Sherlock's way of saying "Watson, how about you make tea?" Her lips pursed as she considered the proper retort to lob in his direction. Luckily for him, she was distracted by the chime of her phone. A text from Sean. Her stomach did a little flip. "Tree in 10?" was all it said, all it really needed to say. Turning her body to avoid Sherlock's gaze, she smiled warmly at the phone and texted back, "YES!"

"I'm going to pass on the tea," Joan composed herself and stood carefully so as not to upset her work. "Just remembered an errand I have to run." She didn't wait for his response but headed nonchalantly towards the coat rack.

Sherlock called after her with his own barely concealed smile, "Bundle up, it's a bit nippy out there." Joan was soon out the door and headed for the park. These rendezvous had started in the spring.

.-.-.-

_Several months earlier_ ...

A paltry dribble of cases over the past few weeks upset the domestic balance of the brownstone. Joan and Sherlock were spending too much time in close proximity with no work to buffer them from each other. Sherlock was moodier and more sullen than usual, to the point of Joan avoiding any nonessential contact with him. The bickering and the outright fighting, alternated by dark silences, got progressively worse.

On that particular morning, Joan wondered why she even stayed, why she lived with him. She wondered out loud and caught Sherlock off guard. Even through the general unpleasantness they were currently experiencing, he held firm to the belief that their living arrangement was a permanent one. The thought of her threatening to leave, let alone actually leaving him, stunned him. Shocked into defensiveness and in true Holmes' style, he rudely responded by telling her it was her decision, she could stay or go, he didn't care one whit what she did. Stone-faced, Joan stared him down until he felt uncomfortable enough to turn and walk away.

An angry, bitterly disappointed Joan took a breath and tried to calm herself. He didn't care. He just said so himself. She needed to make some long term decisions for herself. She would not cry, not here at least. Overwhelmed with the need to get away immediately from him, from the house, from everything, she went upstairs and dressed for a run. The physical activity would help clear her mind and put distance between them.

Joan's cold eyes as she silently passed him on the stairs frightened Sherlock. He could see her mentally planning her escape as she put her earbuds in place and exited their home without a word, slamming the front door behind her to punctuate the moment. How to explain to her that it was his growing fondness for her that caused him to act so boorishly. "Fondness" thats the word he had chosen to describe the growing feeling of need he had every time she walked into a room. He was an idiot - he pushed her away because he was on the verge of showing her at any given moment just how much she meant to him, how much he needed her, how much he cared. And that just could not happen.

Joan's favorite route provided the comfort of running without having to make decisions, allowing her to concentrate on churning all the venom and bitterness she was feeling into physical energy. With each footfall she took away from the brownstone, the anger mutated to sadness. Alone, she allowed the tears to flow. Deep down Joan knew Sherlock cared about her on some level, but she was tired of mining for even the smallest sign of affection. She knew her feelings for him had grown ever stronger as of late but he remained indifferent. Living together just exacerbated her feelings of rejection. But the thought of leaving him and their shared life pained her even more than staying.

She turned towards the park, keeping on her favored path. Her mood had turned from anger to disappointment to self pity and the tears had not stopped. Joan picked up her head and tried focusing on her surroundings. Spring was around the corner but the trees still stood dark and relatively bare, the ground mostly barren. Up ahead on the path, someone stood under the large oak. Her vision was blurry with tears, but she immediately recognized the outline of his body, the way he held himself, the stillness of his form.

Her heart beat faster, unsure of whether to stop or run on past him. As she got closer, Joan saw the look on Sherlock's face and slowed down. His facade was down and she could see the wide eyed vulnerability of a man trying to process emotions he did not understand. She stopped running, discreetly wiped the tears from her cheeks and made her way over to where he stood beneath the tree.

Sherlock's stance was awkward and stiff. He too wiped his face down as she approached. She stopped and he moved forward the rest of the way so they were face to face. She noticed his lashes were wet, his eyes shimmered slightly. Joan stood before him unsure of what was to come.

Sherlock parted his lips as if to speak but no words came. The speech, the explanation and apology he had rehearsed on his way to find her evaporated at the sight of her. His words had hurt her, he saw the traces of the pain he inflicted on her face. How could he find the right words now. All he could do was search her face for forgiveness and hate himself. Their eyes engaged and held as they tried to communicate. Seeing the pain in his eyes, the confusion, Joan began to understand.

The words rushed out of him suddenly, "I'm sorry." Sherlock looked down and nervously shifted his weight. He cleared his throat and made eye contact once more. "I ... I do ... care ... very much." He nodded at her trying to reinforce what he was saying and looked down once more, afraid of what he might find in her eyes. Joan was breathing deeply, trying to control her own feelings. She knew how difficult even the barest admission of caring for anyone was for Sherlock. Without thinking, Joan moved forward and placed her hands around his waist, drawing herself to him, gently placing her head on his chest. She could hear the thunder of his heart beats through his coat. Slowly at first, his arms came around her, gripping her to him as he became comfortable with the touch. He laid his head on top of hers and whispered, " ... Please... Don't leave ..."

She held on to him tighter in response, lifting her head so she could feel the warmth of his neck, the sweet smell of him, a heady mixture of wool and tea and honey. He held the back of her head, closed his eyes and took in the sensation of holding her, the silk of her hair, the strength of shoulders, the curve of her abdomen as it crushed in to his. They swayed as they stood, drunk with the warmth of the tender proximity they had never allowed each other before this moment.

As Joan found her voice, she whispered, "I don't think I could ever leave you ... you infuriating man." She looked up into his face, "We are stuck with each other, you know." Sherlock snorted a laugh in relief, "Not the kindest of acknowledgments of affection, but I will take it." Together, they remained clenched in each others arms, physically reassuring themselves of the permanence of their bond.

He pulled away first, wiping his eyes. With the back of her hand she did the same, smiling at him, as he bent his head and brushed back some wayward strands of her hair from her face, "Okay?" he asked. She nodded her affirmation. Awkwardly he turned and started his walk home. Joan watched him disappear into the distance. They had barely exchanged five sentences but somehow they had understood each other. She put her earbuds back in and continued on her run.

Joan returned to the brownstone unsure of the repercussions, if any, from their encounter. A note was stuck to her bedroom door from Sherlock with the address of a homicide, and a request she join him as soon as possible. From that moment on, a sudden upsurge in the need for their talents kept them busy enough to not have time to refer to the events of the day. Work always came first. The bickering and fighting dropped down to the usual levels and aside from furtive glances and slightly awkward moments of standing a bit too close, life resumed its usual color at the brownstone for the next couple of weeks.

.-.-.-

Approximately two weeks later ...

The trees were beginning to sprout little yellow green leaves and the frozen ground was yielding to the sun's attentions, producing grassy patches here and there. Joan was on her morning run. She was coming up to their tree, as she referred to it now, allowing herself to once more revisit the memory of their time beneath its branches. As she approached, Joan noticed a large white envelope, pinned into position against the trunk by a rock. On closer examination, she saw a large "W" inscribed on the front, and went in to investigate.

The note inside read: "It would give me great pleasure if you would be so kind as to meet me here at 3:00 today.*" The note was signed "Sean." The corner of her mouth lifted just a tiny bit. The footnote marked by the asterisk further confirmed her suspicions: "*Barring any calls to investigate murders, bombings and the like, of course." Conveniently, a pen had been left for her response. "I shall be here promptly at 3:00, unless my flatmate detains me in some manner." She signed her name, "Gianna." The mom of her best friend in elementary school always called her Gianna. Joan used to wish, way back when, that she had been born Italian. She put the envelope back in its place and with renewed energy continued her run.

Sherlock was as nervous as a 13 year old boy on his first date. He carefully spread out the blue plaid blanket under their tree, patting down the edges, putting out cups and saucers, aligning the spoons with the napkins. His intent was to have afternoon tea outside with Watson. That is all we are going to have, he reminded himself, just tea and conversation, like friends are supposed to do, or at least he thought that's what friends did. His experience in that area was rather limited.

Joan managed to sneak up on Sherlock Holmes. Before he knew it two feet in ridiculously high ankle boots were at the edge of his picnic blanket. He looked up with such a wondrously surprised look on his face that her heart skip a beat.

He beamed. "Ah, there you are, come, sit." He tried to compose himself, "I thought we could have our afternoon tea al fresco." She smiled and sat next to him. He relaxed. They spent the next hour or so talking about everything except their life at the brownstone or their work. It was an easy and companionable conversation, comfortable and relaxing for both. As the last of the tea was finished, Joan looked at Sherlock sitting cross-legged in front of her, "Do you think we could do this every so often? ... Just meet here and just ... you know ... keep this part of our lives completely separate from the rest?"

Sherlock studied her for a second or two considering her request, "Hmmm ... provide ourselves a bit of a safe haven?" He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, staring off for a beat before he returned his attention to her. "So that ... what we say or ... do ... under the umbrage of this old oak remains separate from our life out there ..." He vaguely motioned in the direction of the brownstone.

She nodded, "It isn't realistic or truly possible, I suppose but ..." Her voice trailed off. The intensity of his gaze made her self-conscious. Joan looked down and shook her head with a sudden sense of embarrassment. "It's silly. Adolescent really ... Never-mind." She moved to get up.

He reached his hand over and stopped her, "I think its worth a try ..." His hand was warm and gentle on hers, his thumb stroking the top of her hand. "... This stays solely between us here ..." Sherlock's fingers moved carefully to her wrist, his hand gently exploring the smoothness of her skin as each fingertip took its turn caressing her, playing with the tiny knob of her wrist bone. Joan's lips parted slightly, his touch and the openness of his eyes as he gazed at her, making it hard for her to catch her breath. They stared in silence at each other considering the possibilities.

The quiet was suddenly pierced by the shrill squawks and twitterings of a group of birds engaged in a territorial fight overhead, and shattering the connection Joan and Sherlock had just so tentatively forged. Startled and slightly embarrassed, Joan checked her watch and alleviated the situation by teasing him, "Damn, it's almost five. My cranky housemate is expecting me back."

He sighed and quickly released his disappointment at the too soon ending of their touch. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and grimaced in her direction. He tapped at her booted foot, and seriously intoned, "Don't you say an unkind word about that man! I've heard he is a joy to live with." Joan burst out laughing. Sherlock deadpanned, "It's not that funny." Her laughter continued. He shook his head in mock displeasure, " ...this arrangement may not work." He couldn't help but smile at her laughter. He had never seen her this relaxed and open.

Joan leaned forward and squeezed his arm, "Thank you."

He put on his most dour face, "Hmmm... You'd best be off. I'll cleanup here. I'll see if I can get my irresponsible flatmate to help me with the dishes when I get home." She feigned anger at his comments as she stood up. Sherlock watched Joan walk away until he could no longer see her.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat at the computer table and reviewed the progress notes on his experiment on plant growth variations with regard to chemical concentrations in New York City soil. As he evaluated the data, his mind wandered ever so slightly towards Watson, remembering their conversation in the park of few days ago. As if on cue, he caught sight of her beautifully bare legs descending the staircase. He swallowed hard and quickly buried his head in his papers.

"Sherlock?" she tried to get his attention. She knew he had seen her come down the stairs but she'd play along if this is what he wanted.

"Mmmm?" he distractedly answered, knowing he was fooling no one. Her deductive skills were almost as good as his.

"It's such a nice afternoon, I'm going to take my book and go read in the park." Her tone tried to be casual but the latent invite to Sherlock was more than evident.

He looked up quickly to assess her face. The spark in her eyes set off an uncontrolled response on his own face, eyebrows slightly raised, bottom lip tucked in, eyes darting away from hers and then back.

"Sounds good," his tone matter of fact. "I'm waiting for someone from the precinct to pick up the Goldberg files. They should be here momentarily." His eyes studied her making sure she understood he very much wanted to spend the afternoon with her, as soon as duty was discharged.

Watson nodded at him, purposefully picking up the blanket from the back of the sofa, tucking it under her arm, and giving him a quick glance over her shoulder as she exited the room.

She left Sherlock fidgeting in his chair and checking his watch. He'd give them five more minutes to come get the file.

45 minutes later:

The weakening sunlight shone through the young leaves of the old tree making spotted patterns onto her book and blanket. It was late afternoon and the mild warmth of the spring day was beginning to fade. Joan was beginning to regret wearing shorts as she lay on her stomach under their tree reading, or more accurately, trying to read, and checking her phone. Perhaps he hadn't really understood her invitation.

Out of nowhere, he plunked down beside her, flat on his back, and just started talking. "Bell showed up himself for the files. I could not get rid of the man. I told him you were gone for the evening in case he was lingering hoping to see you. I do think he has a little thing for you but no that did not dissuade him. Perhaps he has a little thing for me. I doubt it since I got the man shot..."

Joan just watched him. He was babbling. Sherlock was as nervous as she was about this. He really could be quite adorable. She watched his mouth form words not really caring what he was saying. Joan moved her head over so it hovered over his.

Sherlock's mouth kept forming words but now he had no idea what he was saying. Joan slowly brought her lips down on his and caressed them gently with hers, pulling away just slightly, dragging his lower lip up with hers. He stopped talking. His eyes were closed and he was barely breathing. Sherlock's hand came up and tangled itself in her hair as he brought her back down to him to continue the kiss. Soft and tentative at first, slowly building into a small release of the passion each had held in so long. They broke away for breath, opening their eyes and looking at each other, a smile spread across both their faces.

Joan moved her body so she lay on top of him, tucking her head in the crook of his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and held on. She smiled into his neck.

His phone chimed a text's arrival. "We're ignoring that," he said into her hair tightening his grip.

Her phone chimed. His phone chimed again.

"We need to see what's going on," practical Joan resurfaced and she moved off of him towards her phone.

"I swear if that's Marcus, I am going to have to have words with him..."

"It's Gregson. Says its urgent." Out of his warm embrace, Watson shivered a little in the cold breeze.

Sherlock sat up and reached for his phone. Sighing. Work comes first. He had the same message from Gregson. "I suppose we must."

They stood and picked up the blanket in the dwindling light. He took off his jacket and put it around her shoulders without a word and without a word she accepted it. He held her hand until they reached the sidewalk and then was content just to be able to walk by her side.

- - - -  
A few days after...

The case turned out to be a tedious bore involving a few days worth of research and exhausting legwork for both of them. When they finally got home they went their separate ways to rest and recharge - Watson slept, Sherlock went off to the kitchen.

The next day Watson dragged herself into the kitchen, "Morning." He acknowledged her entrance with an enthusiastic nod and smile, continuing his task. She reached for the coffee and stared at Sherlock, unsure of what he was doing. In front of him sat a large pot out of which he was spooning a thick custard-like cream into a jar.

Joan took a sip from her heaven-sent coffee and moved closer to him. She had to ask, "What is that? What are you doing?"

He looked up with childlike joy on his face, "Clotted cream! Home made. I had a yen. I occasionally do miss home and its delicacies."

"Clotted cream hmmm ... I've heard of it. Never tried it." She took another sip of coffee and watched as he dropped spoonfuls into the glass jar. "I know it's supposed to be quite good."

"Quite good? Quite good? It is delicious. And you are in for a treat. This is fresh, home-made and the consistency is perfect." He dipped his index finger into the pot and offered her a big blob of the cream. Sherlock often extended a finger's worth of food to Joan - curry, pudding, honey, even a bit of Osage orange, but she always demurely declined. This morning, she moved forward, parted her lips, slowly took his finger into her mouth, and swirling her tongue she slowly sucked the sweet cream from his finger finally releasing the tip with a parting lick of her tongue.

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, mouth dropped open, his breathing deep, staring in absolute wonder at his partner. He managed to put down his hand while she stared at him with an innocent smile.

He cleared his throat. The words came out a bit huskier than he intended, "I ... I uh ... think you may be getting an emergency call from Sean shortly."

Joan smiled over her coffee cup at him and said sweetly, "I look forward to it." She walked out of the kitchen leaving him standing with a lopsided grin on his face and an almost full jar of clotted cream.


	3. Chapter 3

Desire. Elation. Embarrassment. Regret. One feeling followed the other as Joan walked out of the kitchen and turned towards the stairs. What had she just done? She and Sherlock did not have that kind of relationship. Not yet anyway. Not at the brownstone. "But he started it!" the rebel teen inside her yelled, "and big deal so you licked cream off his finger." She could feel the blush spreading across her face. His eyes had lit with an intensity she had never seen before as she suckled his finger. Ugh! Good lord! Involuntarily her face squinched at the memory. She shook her head trying to erase the image from her mind as she quickly climbed the stairs. Under the tree they had made an agreement which she had just broken. The fear that this kind of behavior was going to upend their friendship and partnership resurfaced in her. That was absolutely the last thing that either of them wanted. Joan decided to be an adult about this and go hide in her room.

Sherlock was still standing in the kitchen trying to get himself under control. A lesser man would be following Watson upstairs right now. A better man would not be visualizing her lips repeating the action over and over, feeling the sweep of her tongue... He stopped himself and took a deep breath. "Keep to the task at hand," he told himself as he returned to scooping the cream into the jar. He was never going to be able to look at clotted cream again without a little twitch of a reaction. Sherlock realized a transformation of their relationship was underway. He wasn't sure if they were doing the right thing by allowing themselves the level of intimacy both of them obviously craved. He could not imagine his life without her in it and would never do anything to upset the balance of their friendship. As partners, they worked like a well oiled machine. He snickered to himself as the image of "well oiled partners" leapt into his mind. Sherlock shook his head. Part of him really was reverting to his teenage days, returning to being "Sean" in many ways.

As usual, work stepped in to stop any further rumination. The morning's incident was put away in light of the terrorist threat they were enlisted to investigate. The rhythms of their friendship and partnership resumed only slightly altered. They were a bit more apt to sit a little closer together, to allow the bump of a shoulder or the brush of hand, to let a gaze linger a degree longer. But it went no further than that. Most importantly, their work did not suffer in the least; perhaps, it even enhanced their working life.

- . - . - - . - . - - . - . - - . - . -

Spring was quickly giving in to summer heat. The tree had not received its visitors for a few weeks.

It was late afternoon and Sherlock was out for a few hours. They had been working extra long days, with no down time. How the man managed to keep moving with as little sleep as he had was beyond explanation. Joan took the opportunity of his absence to enjoy a bath, a real one, with bubbles, relaxing without the threat of explosions, doors being thrown open, or demands for her immediate presence bellowed up at her.

The phone chimed. She peeked over the side of the tub where she had left her phone on a towel. Sean: "Come play?" She smiled. He rarely used his inscrutable text style when he wrote as Sean. Joan dried her hands on the towel and Gianna texted Sean back: "In the tub right now." The returning text was almost immediate: "Naked, with bubbles?" She simply answered "Yes" as her smile widened. His response bounced back: "will b right over." Quickly she responded: "No! Meet u in 30 mins." A sullen little "k" was Sean's response.

They arrived at the tree almost at the same time. Walking towards each other and the shade of the tree. Sherlock looked almost carefree, jacket off and on his arm, hands in pockets as he strolled towards her. "Your hair's still wet," he noted as they got closer. His hand moved up to push the hair back from her face but stopped. An odd awkwardness settled around them. Joan half smiled and pushed her hair back. The soft warmth of summer surrounded them, a gentle breeze wafted between them and stirred the leaves overhead. They stood looking at each other not sure what was appropriate.

Sherlock reached out a finger and touched the white canvas bag that hung on Joan's shoulder. "What did you bring?" he asked.

"Oh," Watson looked at the bag, "the blanket, some water, some uhm, playing cards..."

"Playing cards?" Sherlock looked at her incredulously. "I don't think we'll need those." He moved a little closer.

An embarrassed Watson looked down and stuttered, "I uh, ... You said come play ... And I, ... oh I don't know what I was thinking ..." She sighed.

Tentatively, Sherlock lightly placed a hand on her arm. "Why is this so awkward ..." he whispered. She relaxed a little at his touch.

"I'm afraid." She lifted her face to look at him. "I don't want to ruin what we have."

He looked down at her and nodded. "I know... I've thought on that as well ... But we have two choices here. We can spread out the blanket under this tree and we can sit ... and play cards..." He tilted his head and looked at her from the corner of his eyes. Joan fought a smile. Sherlock brought his face closer to hers so that their foreheads touched, "or we can admit certain desires..." His nose gently rubbed against hers, "certain wants and ... needs ..." his lips brushed her cheek, "... that only we can satisfy for each other ..." His hand came up and cupped her face. Joan responded by closing her eyes and leaning into his hand.

They spread the blanket on the west side of the tree so they could watch the sun set behind the Manhattan skyline. Sherlock lay on his back, propped up on his elbows, while Watson sat beside him, legs tucked in under her. She looked at Sherlock stretched out in the warm late afternoon sun. He turned his head and the golden light caught his eyes making the blue grey shine green. Her reticence was lost. Joan reached her hand towards him and undid the top collar button of his shirt. His eyes slowly closed as she did the same for the next two buttons and let her hand linger, her fingers playing with the soft hair of his chest. Sherlock took her hand and kissed her open palm. He laid back and gently tugged at her hand guiding her on to him. She placed her head on his chest as he brought his arm around her, stroking her back. The sun was disappearing behind the City, the golden light washed out and dimmed into greys and blues. The rustle of the light breeze playing through leaves above and the low whisper of their breathing, the only sounds to break the quiet.

Sherlock spoke softly, "You're feeling more comfortable with ... this." Reading physical clues in others was a rudimentary skill of consulting detectives. It made it easier and harder for them. There was no hiding arousal or nerves or fear from each other. She lifted her head to look at him and nodded, "It just all became real to me in the kitchen the other day ... with the cream on your finger and when I ..." He smiled broadly at the memory, making her grin as well. The dam that was holding them back gave way with the memory of the small intimacy they had shared.

The over-thinking stopped. He rolled her on her back no longer controlling his desire and need for her. Sherlock's hands found the small of her back and pressed her up and closer to him. Her hands found their way under his shirt, luxuriating in the feel of his skin and muscles. His lips at her neck rasped upwards till they found and joined her waiting mouth. She moved a hand to grab the back of his head and push him harder into her. What had been tender exploration gave way to passionate demands. He was there to do her bidding. The rest of the world disappeared for him until the vague nuisance of a child's giggle filtered into Sherlock's awareness. He ignored it. Watson heard the child also but could not ignore the sound.

Joan held Sherlock momentarily at bay and turned her head towards the giggles. A child, a boy of about 4 years of age, stood a few feet away in the quickly falling shadows. The child was alone, chasing fireflies and apparently greatly amused by them. By now Sherlock had succumbed to the child's laughter as well and turned to watch him. They heard the far off calls of a frantic woman, "Joseph! Joseph! Where are you?"

Watson and Holmes looked at each other and silently agreed what needed to be done. He rolled off of Watson reluctantly, as she moved to get up.

"I'll be right back," she told him. She walked over to the child, "Hi Joseph. My name is Joan. Why don't we go find your mama, hmm?" The child took her hand and they disappeared in the direction of the woman's cries.

Sherlock lay back, marveling at his partner, she had a way about her. Children, animals, surly Brits - she charmed them all.

When Joan got back to the tree, she found Sherlock fast asleep. The past few days had been exhausting. She lay up close beside him and watched the fireflies twinkle around them. Listening to the slow and steady rhythm of his breathing, she drifted off as well.

When she awoke, she found him sleeping on her breast, her arms encircled him, keeping him safe. The damp coolness of the grass seeping up through the blanket signaled it was time to leave the shelter of the tree. Watson roused him and they silently made their way home.


	4. Chapter 4

The walk home from the park was a relatively quiet one. Joan and Sherlock shared a comment or two about their surroundings and reminders of domestic duties, punctuated by the occasional yawn. They stopped for food, brought it home and sat on the couch and ate contentedly. Exhaustion coupled with a full stomach quickly did them in. Joan and Sherlock were no longer twenty-somethings. There is only so far you can push a forty year old body.

The morning sun found them sprawled on top of each other on the sofa, hair, legs, arms carelessly tumbled about. Both phones had been ringing for some time. Watson answered hers first as Sherlock disentangled an arm to reach for his. Simultaneous conversations were held with Bell and Gregson who once again called to drag them out in the direction of a crime.

-.-. -.-. -.-. -.-. -.-. -.-. -.-. -.-.

Two days later ...

Joan shuffled into the kitchen where Sherlock stood finishing his tea. "Did you get any sleep?"

"I may have dozed at some point, not sure." He set his cup in the sink.

"Did you bring someone home last night? I thought I heard a woman's voice," she asked with her back to him as she pretended to look for something in the refrigerator. Her question was met with absolute silence. Her stomach dropped. Joan had stewed about this all night. Did she have a right to ask? She grabbed the milk and turned around to find him staring at her. He had moved closer down the counter. She couldn't tell if it was anger or disappointment that registered on his face.

"Watson," he took the milk bottle from her hand and set it on the counter, "I am going out for a walk, down to the tree." His voice was flat. "Once you have finished your breakfast, please join me," with that he turned and left the kitchen.

Joan was left completely flustered. His reaction had been controlled but she could tell he was upset. No more upset than she had been last night. She had heard the sound of a woman's voice coming from downstairs around 3:00 a.m. Her first instinct had been to go down and confront him. But confront him about what? They had no romantic commitment. They had engaged in some intimate behavior, yes, not sex. It meant nothing. Sherlock was capable of meaningless sexual escapades with random women on any given day. Although, she had to admit that he abstained, as far as she could tell, from that behavior since they had started meeting under the tree. That tree. That stupid tree. She had made a mistake. Their friendship was about to be ruined because of their encounters under that tree.

Joan reluctantly dressed and walked down to the park to face the truth.

She found him leaning against the oak, hands in pocket staring at the ground, the perennial frown upon his face. Joan again could not read his feelings. She walked up in neutral unsure whether she should be on the offensive or defensive. He didn't look up but started talking to her.

"I think we need to clarify a few things between us."

Joan's whole body clenched, "Sherlock, I know that we ..."

"Watson, listen first." He looked up sharply at her. They were no longer Sean and Gianna. He took a breath. "The voice you heard last night, the female voice, was my father's secretary. The damn woman kept going round in circles so much that I opted to put her on speakerphone so that I might get some work done while she informed me ad nauseum of my familial business responsibilities."

"Oh," Joan felt a wave of relief and embarrassment.

He continued. "What upsets me about your assumption is first, you let emotion cloud your sense of observation. You jumped to a conclusion without getting all the facts. The difference in the sound of a voice filtered through a phone speaker compared to the voice of a person physically present in the house should have been obvious." He was lecturing her now, his hands emphasizing his words, his eyes darting up to look at her. "The voice itself, distinctly British and excruciatingly annoying, should have been recognizable to you. You've spoken to her on many occasions. Your process was impaired by emotion. You made assumptions based on emotion rather than on fact. Which brings me to the second upsetting circumstance ..."

Sherlock looked straight into her eyes, "Did you really think I would bring a woman home for casual relations?" He stared at her with an almost childlike look of hurt in his eyes. "What do you think we're doing here? That this is some sort of casual hookup? ... You know me better than that Watson."

Sherlock had been wounded by her words but Joan was not about to back down or apologize. "I don't know what to think. I don't know what we are doing or where the boundaries of all this are. You have some very different ideas about sex and commitment than I do, if that is in fact where we are going. You flat out told me once you were "post love." Her arms crossed in front of her, she looked away from him unable to stand the look in his eyes as she talked.

Sherlock sighed, his voice softened, "I meant what I said about being post love. Love is petty and transient. I love pancakes and tea and explosive devices. The word holds no meaning. What I feel for you, the connection we have, cannot be encapsulated in that limited, trite little word."

A lump formed in her throat. Joan shook her head trying to find the words to express herself, "... You are my ... my l... " She stopped and took a breath, her voice whisper thin, "I don't want to lose this, lose you, because of a misunderstanding. I need to know where we are going, that I can trust that you'll be here tomorrow or next month or next year..." Tears played in her eyes but she would not let them drop. She stared at the ground as she spoke, "I watched my stepfather cheat on my mother, watched her world collapse from within ... I've had the experience myself ... on more than one occasion. It left scars. ... Some part of me fully expects you to hurt me."

He nodded his head and shot her a pained grimace. "We both carry scars I suppose ... "

After a moment, Sherlock took a step towards her, forcing her to look at him as he spoke. "I want you as my partner in all aspects of my life. ... I have no simple word for what I feel, for what we are, for what you mean to me. I'm not being dramatic or exaggerating when I say that if I should ever lose you, I would cease to exist. There can be no Holmes without Watson. And if you don't feel you can trust me as your life partner, then please tell me now while we can still possibly salvage this and remain friends and business partners. We are heading to the point of no return."

Joan stared at him, emotion welled up inside her and forced the tears to drop.

His voice was low and husky with emotion, "This is your decision ... I am one hundred percent committed to you, to us, body and soul. ... You need to decide for yourself what you can ..." Sherlock swallowed hard. He squinted and looked away into the distance. "It is an important decision. Take time to think and uhm, let me know. Are we or are we not ..." His last words were barely audible. He wanted to touch her, hold her hand at least but restrained himself and suddenly just walked away.

Joan stood stunned. She had always believed she was the more mature of the two of them, the more committed and emotionally prepared for a relationship. Confusion, anger, sadness battled within her. She fought the urge to run after him. His advice to her was surprisingly sage. She needed to think, sort out her feelings and fears, and decide what was right for her.

Walking to the trunk of the tree, she bent down and sat at its base. The safe haven they created for themselves underneath these branches had vanished. It was time to face reality.


	5. Chapter 5

Having sat under that tree for what felt like hours, Joan finally conceded that enlightenment was not to be found there. Her head was spinning. She knew exactly what her decision would be if she could trust her heart. But the strident voices of past failures taunted her, pointing out every dark pitfall in the path before her, shining a light on every broken trust and shattered heart that lay strewn behind her. Joan needed a third party, the voice of a friend. Emily, Hope, Jen would be of no help. They lived too much of a normal life to understand what she had been through and hoped to go through. She needed to talk to someone who understood complicated relationships. She needed to talk to Ms. Hudson.

Sherlock paced the brownstone, unsure of what he had just done. He hadn't given her an ultimatum, had he? Would she perceive it as such? Truth be told, he would stay by Watson's side even if she were to marry a boor and bear him seventeen children. Sherlock was used to being kept on the outside of his desires. In some fashion, though, in his heart, he knew Watson would always be his.

He needed to keep busy at the moment, keep his mind occupied on other matters or go mad. This, this is what he hated about human emotions. They clouded the brain as much as any opiate, stymied clear thought. He should have steered clear of that confounded tree. The thought occurred to Sherlock that Watson might still be there, under that tree, not wanting to come home and face him. He texted Watson and let her know he was going to be at the precinct for the duration of the day, possibly into the evening, rifling through cold cases.

Upon receiving the text, she thanked him and told him she wouldn't be back home until later in the afternoon and reminded him to feed Clyde before he left. The formality of their texts, without the use of "Lock-Speak," as they had fondly termed the cryptic shortcuts he invented, concerned them both.

-. -. -. .- .- .-

Ms. Hudson greeted Joan at the door with a hug. Joan hadn't told her the purpose of her visit, but she sensed Joan's need. Her home was reminiscent of the brownstone, an extremely clean and organized version of the brownstone. Every wall was hidden behind bookshelves and their respective books, all in proper order. Joan had no doubt that Ms. Hudson could lay her hand upon any volume requested in mere seconds. The teapot, under its blue and white cosy, sat next to two white porcelain cups on the coffee table; a small plate of shortbread kept them company. Ms. Hudson took the cosy off the teapot and asked Joan how she was. That question served as sufficient prompt for Joan. A rush of words poured out from her, explaining the choice she needed to make and her uncertainty as to how to proceed. She did reserve the details, the meetings underneath the tree, the private moments between her and Sherlock, to herself.

Ms. Hudson sat across from Joan and listened. If there was one thing she understood it was the quagmire that relationships between complicated people could become.

"Truth be told, I've seen this coming." She slowly turned her gaze to the curtained window, considering her words before continuing, "If you want advice as to what is the wrong or right thing to do, well, I can't give you that," she sighed. "It's not that simple." She took a sip of her tea and looked at the normally placid Joan sitting on the sofa, her body twisted like a pretzel, legs crossed at the ankles and knees, arms folded tightly in front of her as she leaned forward. Ms. Hudson was not a detective but she knew exactly what she was looking at. She had been there on more than one occasion.

"Joan, you already know what your answer is. You are holding yourself ba ..."

Ms. Hudson's phone rang, she looked at the screen and pursed her lips. "Do you mind if I get this?" she asked. Joan nodded her on to answer the call.

Sherlock was on the other end. "Ms. Hudson, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had time this afternoon for a brief chat?"

She smiled as she answered, "Well, at the moment I'm having tea with a friend, but if you want I can call you back when we're through?"

There was a pause on the other end. "Watson." It was more a statement from him than a question to be answered.

"Yes, that's right." She replied.

"Is she alright?" he asked trying unsuccessfully to keep emotion out of his voice.

"Yes. Just fine." She answered trying to reassure him with her tone. "I'll call you back later." A soft thank you was his reply and he hung up.

Ms. Hudson turned her attention back to Joan whose body language had loosened up a bit. "Sherlock," Joan said with a tiny smile, again more of a statement than a question.

Ms. Hudson beamed at her. "What am I going to do with the two of you? Do you know what I would give to find a relationship like you two have, do you both understand how special it is?"

"Exactly," said Joan, her eyes glistened, "I don't want to ruin this. I don't want to lose this."

She gave Joan a sympathetic look and sighed. "Call me an in incurable romantic but you two are soul mates, if such a thing truly exists. No matter what you choose to do or not do, you will always be in each others lives. I'm not saying it will be easy either way, but the working to stay together is what makes relationships worthwhile."

By the time their chat ended, Joan was sitting back on the sofa and feeling much more relaxed. Ms. Hudson regaled her with stories of her alliances with men in need of muses that had Joan laughing and shaking her head in disbelief.

"I don't know why anyone would seek my counsel when it comes to love," she sighed, "I have failed so much, but I suppose, I'm also not afraid to keep trying."

Ms. Hudson walked Joan to the door and left her with these words, "Trust yourself Joan. Don't let fear keep you from living."

Joan walked out into the mid-afternoon sunshine and started walking. Surrounded by the noise of traffic and the push of people jostling by her, her answer, unbidden, presented itself to her ...

-:- -:- -:-

Bell was unsuccessfully trying to talk to Sherlock about the case they closed a few days ago. Sherlock sat on the file room floor, in the middle of a smaller version of the data nests he made for himself at home. Bell leaned on the room's table as he talked. 'At least his prattling provides a distraction' thought Sherlock.

His phone which lay on the table by Bell chimed. Sherlock jumped. Marcus picked up the phone to pass down to Sherlock.

"It's from Joan. Huh, all it says is "we are."

Sherlock was on his feet taking the phone from Bell's hand before his words were finished. He stared at the message with open mouthed awe.

"Holmes, ... Holmes! Is everything okay?" Bell couldn't get a response from him.

Sherlock finally turned to Bell, "Detective, could I trouble you to put away these files. There's something I need to attend to right away."

Bell normally would have refused but whatever had just happened involved Joan and he acquiesced to the request for her sake. "Sure. Is everything okay?" he asked. Sherlock nodded yes and made his way quickly out of the room.

Walking out of the station, Sherlock placed a call. "Alfredoooo! Yes! As we discussed ... Do you think I could borrow it today? If I drop by in about half an hour? Excellent. Thank you!"

Sherlock took out his trusty whistle and hailed a cab.


	6. Chapter 6

The message said to meet him in front of the house at 5:00, to wear trousers and bring a jacket. Yes, she allowed him, sometimes, to pick out her clothes in the morning, but this was new. Probably case related she supposed as she stood waiting for him in her black pants. Neither she nor Sherlock had said a word about her earlier text, confirming her decision to move forward towards a more intimate relationship. To be honest, they had not talked at all. Joan was apprehensive wondering, how this would change their working relationship. Just greeting each other had the potential of being awkward and stressful.

Traffic around the brownstone was picking up as rush hour approached but through the usual din, a low guttural growl caught her attention.

A huge deep blue and silver motorcycle thundered down the street. It's driver's metallic indigo helmet glinted in the sun as it came to a roaring stop in front the brownstone. Instantly she recognized the driver. Joan's mouth dropped open a bit in surprise. He took off the helmet and gave her his best punk rebel sneer, "Hop on, Watson!"

Joan looked at him in shock, walking towards the metallic monster. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing! Are you even licensed to drive that thing? Where did you get it?"

Being not quite the reaction Sherlock expected, the wind was knocked out of his bravado. He stared at her for a second and answered her questions in a normal tone, "It belongs to Alfredo, he's letting us use it. And of course I'm licensed. I am licensed to operate a wide range of vehicles and machinery." He gave her a tight lipped tilt of his head. "Now, come on, then."

Incredulously she stared at him, and she got closer, "No. Motorcycles are not a safe means of transportation. When I worked the ER, do you know how many ..."

"Watson, Watson ..." he cut her off, "I know what I'm doing, I would never place you in danger ..."

Joan stared down at him about to enumerate all the times he had placed her in danger.

"Let me rephrase that, I would never knowingly and carelessly place you in danger. ... Trust me." His voice was taking on a more personal, softer quality. He reached towards her and tugged her open jacket closed letting his hand stay just a second longer than necessary, his eyes locked to hers.

She should be stronger than to fall for his sorry puppy eyes. The corners of her lips twitched up slightly as she gave in. It would be fun to just let reason go and ride. "Oh, alright, but no antics."

He beamed and handed her the extra helmet. She held onto his shoulder as she swung a leg over the seat. Watson straddled up close behind him and held on tight to his waist causing Sherlock to instinctively lean back into her just a bit and enjoy the moment before he brought the engine beneath them to life.

Elation swept through both as they picked up speed, the world rushed past them. In all her questioning of Sherlock, Joan had forgotten the most important question to ask, "Where are we going?" All she knew at this point was they were headed towards the east.

-:- -:- -:-

The late afternoon mid-August sun was still shining as they turned off the Long Island Expressway on to a frontage road. Joan had closed her eyes once they turned on to the expressway. She did trust Sherlock, she just didn't trust the big trucks and angry drivers that populated the thoroughfare at rush hour.

Change in temperature and speed caused her to open her eyes and look around. The scenery appeared almost rural, homes dotted the groves of trees here and there. The motorcycle was now aimed towards a dirt road. Sherlock had reduced his speed and he carefully maneuvered them down the dusty lane. A sturdy wrought iron gate appeared in front of them. He came to a stop, put the kickstand in place and took off his helmet.

Watson happily took off her helmet and looked around. "Where are we?"

Sherlock keyed the correct digits into the keypad on the side post and the gate clicked open.

"We are on the private land of a previous client of mine who would prefer anonymity. He has graciously allowed our visit." He climbed back on the motorcycle and slowly proceeded past the gate and up the road for a quarter of a mile. Sherlock turned off the road and on to a grassy patch. They made their way towards a grouping of trees.

Joan was intrigued but waited for him to stop before asking anything further.

They found themselves beside a huge green leafed oak. Joan began to understand. Under the tree lay blankets, a picnic basket and several other items including a lantern and cushions.

Sherlock helped her off the cycle as if this were an everyday occurrence. They walked towards the tree's shade. He started explaining as he walked towards the supplies. "My client, let's call him P., purchased this land with the intent of building a home for his girlfriend. They have since had a falling out. He is a rather wealthy singer of sorts and has an estate miles up the road." He reached for one of the blankets and with Watson's help spread it on the grassy area beneath the tree.

"The property is completely fenced in, well secluded, off the road, no chance of children or animals or anyone really wandering through. Cellphone coverage is weak." He tossed a couple of the cushions onto the blanket and motioned for her to sit.

Joan observed him throughout his monologue and realized via his body language that he was as nervous as she was. "I took the liberty of telling Captain Gregson that we would not be available for the next 24 hours. I've turned my phone off and I would appreciate it if you did likewise." He took his jacket off and sat as he continued, "We have a lovely repast waiting for us in this basket, if you would care to join me." He dragged the basket closer to the blanket.

She sat amazed at all he had done and rewarded him with a warm, broad smile. "Sherlock Holmes, I would never have taken you to be so wildly romantic."

He squinted at her, his brows knit, mouth opened in mock disgust and indignation, "That's it then." He moved to get up. "If you are going to be rude and insulting, we are leaving. Come on, help me pick up the blanket."

She pushed him back down with little effort as he pretended to continue protesting. "I take it back," she said. "You are a callous, selfish man ..." she poked at him with her finger as she spoke, "... who would never dream of taking care of anyone's needs but your own." Watson had him flat on his back by now with her face right up against his, "Sherlock you are a terrible... terrible man, and certainly the most unromantic one I have ever met."

His arms came around quickly to hold her in place. "That's better," he whispered as he lightly pressed his lips to hers. Her phone rang.

"No! No, no, no..." Sherlock sat up. Joan rolled over to grab her phone.

She checked the screen and showed it to him, her mom. Sherlock shook his head in disbelief and waved her on. He sat sulkily, knees up and arms behind him.

"Hi, mom ... Yes, uh huh ... Listen I can't talk right now. Sherlock and I are doing some ... surveillance, uh, undercover work for the next 24 ..." Sherlock watched her with growing amusement. He pulled the basket closer to him, as Joan continued, "Uh huh ... That's right. Okay. I'll call you tomorrow or the day after ... Yes, we'll be careful."

She hung up. "Sorry. Look I'm turning it off right now." Joan flashed the phone at him to show it was powering off.

He offered her a bottle of water as reward. "Are you hungry?" Sherlock passed her a bottle of hand sanitizer.

"How did you do all this? How did you know I'd say ... yes," Joan asked her voice trailed off as she spoke.

"You know me Watson. Always prepared. ... I did have a plan B in case you answered otherwise... involved sunglasses, a trench-coat, bees, mixtapes ..."

Watson smiled at him not sure if he was kidding or not. Sherlock rooted through the basket. "What would you like, I have some of everything ... fruit, sandwiches, biscuits ... clotted cream ..." He looked at her suggestively and wiggled the glass jar of cream in her direction.

Joan blushed lightly, remembering licking the cream from his finger. She looked up from the jar to him. His look had changed from playful to intent as he remembered her lips on his finger. She held his stare and after a moment, reached for the jar and took it from his hand. Carefully she removed the jar's lid, dipped two fingers in and offered them in his direction. Sherlock did not hesitate. Maintaining contact with her eyes, he moved forward, parted his lips and took her fingers into his mouth, separating them with his tongue and meticulously licking the cream off both. He held her hand, pulled her closer and placed his lips still sweet with the cream on to hers.

The sun slipped behind the trees and the long shadows it had cast dissolved around them; the last orange gold light of the day quickly faded into greys. From soft and sweet gentle nuzzling their kiss transformed into passionate exploration. He held her face in both his hands as she moved to lay back, bringing him with her onto the blanket. Both were now feeling the urgency of their need. They had been interrupted too many times before.

Hands traveled and searched, looking for the sensation of warm skin on skin. They were heading quickly, as Sherlock had recently stated, to the point of no return. Sherlock unbuttoned the front of her shirt and as he did the warm breeze caressed her exposed skin, followed by the touch of his lips and fingertips.

She ran her fingers through his hair trying to form words as he proceeded down. "Sherlock, you are sure we're alone."

"Mmm hmm..." He lifted his head to look at her, "quite ... I made sure." He came back up to kiss her lips once more and reassure her, "I wanted you to feel comfortable ..."

He felt strong and hard on her as she gripped at his back and forced him closer.

She caressed his face, "You really are a wonderf..."

He quieted her by kissing her, "Don't start that again with me Watson ... I am not nice" he kissed her throat, "I am certainly not kind..." He dragged his lips down to her clavicle. "I am most certainly not romantic ..." He placed his mouth on her breast and elicited soft moans from her lips.

"You ... have ... condoms," she needed to ask now before rational thought abandoned her completely.

"Yes." He growled into her skin. "I like that ... you're ... asking in the ... plural."

Her hips were betraying her, pushing upward towards him. "Take your shirt off," she ordered of him and he readily complied. The feel of his chest on her skin a sensation she had long desired. The minimal clothing they had on was quickly disposed of.

The last of the sunlight vanished and night dripped quickly around them from the branches of the tree. Darkness emboldened them. The rasping sounds of mingled breath and soft moans of pleasure mixed with whispers were the only indicators of their presence beneath the tree.

Much as with all aspects of their relationship, syncing to each others needs came easily and satisfaction this first time came quickly for both of them.

Laying in the inky quiet, the cooling night breeze playing against their bodies, they found themselves joyfully holding on to each other, unfettered by clothes, phones, and the rest of humanity. She clenched him to her not wanting to ever let him go.

His head burrowed into her neck, Joan whispered in his ear, "I know you don't like the word but I love you. I think I've know from the first moment we met ... that we belonged together."

Sherlock responded by rolling himself over so he was flat on his back with Watson on top of him, legs entwined, one arm around her waist and bottom, the other holding her head, fingers threaded through her hair.

She thought she heard the breathy exhalation of what might have been her name softly coming from his lips, "Joan." She shuddered partially from sheer pleasure, partially from the cold night air.

Sherlock released her long enough to stretch an arm, grab the extra blanket and cover both of them. They fell asleep watching the last of the summer's fireflies imitate the stars beneath the branches of the tree.


	7. Chapter 7

The motorcycle's growl parted the early morning quiet, coursed up the street and came to a precise stop in front of the brownstone. The air was still cool and Joan had enjoyed the ride home holding Sherlock's warm body close to hers. As she pulled away from him to take off her helmet, he felt a small pang of loss; their adventure was over, a new day was starting. Exhausted, they dragged themselves into the brownstone. The night had been active, very active, and neither had gotten much sleep. Standing in the barely lit entryway, an awkwardness settled around them. They were back home now, not under an oak, not wrapped around each other on the back of a motorcycle. Unsure of what was appropriate and what was not, Sherlock quietly stacked the blankets they brought home on the coatrack table while Joan hung up her coat.

Joan broke the silence first, "I'm going to take a quick shower."

He nodded, reached his hand towards her hair and pulled out a small piece of dried grass. "Probably a good idea." A nervous smile played on his face. They stood for a second again, unsure of what to do, other than stare at each other. The stillness of the house pressed around them.

"Hmm..." she took the grass from his hand, nodded and turned and walked upstairs. Sherlock stood and watched her, then made his way downstairs.

The rush of the warm water on her tired frame and the white noise it provided was exactly what she needed physically and emotionally; a solitary moment to process the night, to begin to acknowledge and accept the deeper connection that she and Sherlock had made. She lingered in the shower remembering the intimate moments between them, each memory producing repercussive sensations and thoughts that left her content that the right decision had been made. Joan left the bath in her cotton tshirt and shorts and headed towards her room.

Sherlock passed her in the hall, clothes in hand, on the way to his shower. She smelled of lavender and honey and his face just softened at the sight of her. He looked down at the clothes in his hands, embarrassed at not knowing what to say or do.

Joan lightly took his wrist and stroked the back of his hand with her thumb to let him know they were alright. He brought his eyes up to meet hers and then proceeded to the bathroom for a shower and his own moments of solitary rumination.

In her room, Watson closed the shutters tight and drew the curtains, flimsy though they were, over them, in an attempt to shut out the early morning light. Just a little more sleep was all she wanted at this point and the bed lured her in. She lay on her side, partially covered in a sheet, face turned towards the open door. Even though she was exhausted, Joan found she couldn't close her eyes. She was waiting for him.

Like a summoned ghost, he appeared in the doorway, tentatively looking in, not knowing if or how to proceed, was she even awake, was he asking too much of her too soon. His eyes wide, his face somber, he stood.

On seeing him, Joan's arm instinctively moved up, inviting him towards her. Relief washed over him and he approached the bed. She picked up the sheet to let him in. Sherlock hesitated for a second making sure he understood. He lay on his back beside her. The scent of his soap and her lavender shampoo filled Joan with comfort.

A sigh escaped him, "It's going to be awkward for a while isn't it?" He spoke to the ceiling. "... I'm a novice at this whole ..." he struggled for a word, "... relationship ... thing."

"You and ... that woman," she couldn't bring herself to say her name, "had a relationship ... of sorts."

"Of sorts. Not real, not living together, not exclusive..."

Joan propped herself on one elbow to look at him, "Are you having second thoughts?"

He turned his head and looked at her to make sure she understood, "No. I'm saying I don't know the rules. I'm going to depend on you to show me the way, to tell me what is okay, what is not ..."

"Oh." She looked at him with kindness, "Well, for starters, bringing home women, not okay."

He squinted at her, suppressing a smile, "But if I take them elsewhere, don't bring them home, that's okay?"

She narrowed her eyes and pounced on him, her face over his, hair hanging down, "I will remind you that I have been trained in single stick, I have a baton and I'm not afraid to use it." She gave him a rough kiss just to let him know he was hers.

"I take it that's a no?" He said gulping for air.

"Sherlock!" She grabbed at him. He pulled her in to him and dug his face into her neck. "Watson, Watson, Watson... Why would I want anyone else."

"Alright..." Properly mollified, she settled down on top of him. "Sleep. We need sleep."

"Mmmm" came the groggy reply. "You understand the same rule applies to you."

"What, I can't bring women home?" she teased.

"I've seen the way Marcus and half of the department look at you. But especially Marcus..." his voice was a serious whisper.

"Are you jealous?" She whispered into his chest

"Not jealous ... No." Sherlock's arms tightened around her. "Just ... " again he couldn't find the words.

"I know," she said softly, "Marcus is a good friend, he's young and still finding his way."

"Hmmm..." his was voice low and did not sound convinced.

Joan picked up her face to look at him, "I have you. Why would I want anyone else?" The sincerity in her voice produced a small lump of emotion in his throat. Being cared for in this manner overwhelmed him. A small kiss was exchanged and she rolled off of him onto her side taking his hand with her. He spooned up close behind her, brushed her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck.

"Mmmm, Sherlock ... Sleep, we need sleep," she admonished him as she let him slip a leg between hers. Joan curled her hand around his and held it tightly to her chest.

Sleep overcame them quickly.


	8. Chapter 8

Light... Too much light ... Where was she?

"Watson! Time to get up! Lets go!"

Too loud ... Stop... What day was it?

She was dragged out of deep sleep to curtains being pulled back, shutters being thrown open. Light flooded in through her closed eyelids; the sound of his voice reverberated in her head. Being awakened in this manner was not new, but still it confused her.

Why was Sherlock dressed? Why was he up? He had just been in bed with her, hadn't he? They had spent the night together, and came home ... and she showered and ... had she been dreaming? Had she dreamt it all, the tree, the motorcycle ... Joan was confused, dizzy from trying to pull herself from the fog of deep sleep to this sunshined-reality that Sherlock was hurling in her direction.

"Come on Watson moooove. We have a case. I have tea ready for you downstairs."

Joan squinted up at him. Anger flared. She pulled up the sheet covering her, "Alright, stop yelling. I'll get dressed as soon as I have some privacy!"

He looked surprised, "Oh." He nodded, "Of course, I'll be in the kitchen."

She looked around the bed for the clothes he had probably selected for her. Instead she found the rumpled sheets beside her, the indent his head left on the pillow ... she picked it up and held it as she re-centered herself and came out of the muddled state of half sleep.

"Wait..." She called after him. He looked back from the doorway to catch a glimpse of her with his pillow in her arms much like a child with a security blanket. Sherlock stood and waited, touched by the sight.

"Do you want to bring the tea up and we can have breakfast, or lunch, or whatever it is, together while I dress?"

"Alright," he acquiesced, "but hurry!"

She was almost dressed by the the time he came back with the tray. She pulled on her shoes while he filled her in on the details of the case. Tea and food was quickly consumed and they were at the front door just minutes later.

"We aren't taking the motorcycle are we?" She said with a certain amount of dread.

"No, that was returned to Alfredo while you slept. I called a cab." He was in the process of opening the front door for her when he quickly shut it.

Joan turned to look at him. His eyes were searching her face. "What's wrong?"

"May I?" he asked in a hushed tone, his eyes fixed on her eyes and then her lips as his body minutely moved closer to her. She brought her hand up to his face and led him to her. The kiss was tender and short but they lingered nose to nose for a second or two.

"Preemptive," he said. "I know I'll want you at some point today and shan't be able to express it." He leaned in for a longer exploration of her lips and mouth. "This will have to suffice until we are alone again."

With closed eyes he leaned his cheek slightly into her hand. Joan's thumb traced his lips. They stood and took the moment. Sherlock felt Joan's other hand slipping into his coat pocket.

"Watson, you really need to work on your pickpocketing skills," he murmured.

"Handkerchief." She whispered and produced the white hankie from his pocket. Joan held his chin while she wiped his upper lip. "This way we don't have to explain why we are wearing the same shade of lipstick."

"Ah." He gently took the handkerchief from her and gave his lower lip a swipe.

"Believe me Sherlock, if I picked your pocket, you would never know." She gave him a smug little tilt of the head.

He opened the door for her, "Is that a challenge, because we can certainly put your skills to the test. I'm positive you'd not get far..."

"Oh please..." Out the door and into the real world Sherlock and Joan went, bickering happily all the way to Chelsea.

The crime scene was a disappointment. Nothing much for them to do but corroborate the NYPD's findings. Gregson and Bell observed their consultants as they knelt, confirmed facts, spouted information at each other. Joan was at a peculiar angle calculating trajectory and almost toppled over as she went to get up. Without thought or even looking at her, Sherlock's arm was immediately there to provide assistance and steady her as she rose. Gregson and Bell exchanged looks. Over the past few weeks they had noted a change in the Holmes/Watson partnership. And after what Bell told him yesterday, Gregson decided to take a direct approach. He called them over, away from the body and the forensics team.

"I'm going to blunt here. It's none of our business and you certainly don't have to answer," as Gregson talked, Bell fidgeted next to him, "but we are friends, I think, and for uh, ... safety's sake...uhm ..." Gregson paused, looked from one to the other and just blurted the question out, "Are you guys pregnant?"

Sherlock and Joan stood silent. Sherlock squinted an incredulous look at Gregson, looking almost pained by the question. Joan stared unsure she'd heard correctly. She turned and looked at Sherlock, her face asking what is he talking about. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders in response.

"Bell, here, saw a text yesterday, inadvertently mind you," Bell squirmed and looked away as Gregson continued talking, "between you two and he mentioned the reaction it provoked in Holmes here. It said ...'we are' ..." He paused uncomfortably waiting for a response from either of them.

Sherlock turned his gaze back onto Bell and then the Captain, "Well, first let me say that that was a personal communication between myself and my partner and as such is very much none of your concern." Sherlock stared them down. "In direct response to your question, I can say with 100% certainty as to the veracity of my statement, that I am not pregnant. What about you Watson?"

Joan glared at him, being a smart ass, typical Sherlock, she thought. She turned to the two men before her, pinning them to the spot where they stood with the surgical precision of her stare. "No." She waited a beat and watched them squirm. "To the best of my knowledge, at this moment I, we, are not pregnant. Should the situation change, we will be sure to inform you two immediately." Sherlock smirked at them behind her. They had ticked Watson off. For once, he wasn't facing the brunt of her ire. Joan took off her latex gloves and turned to Sherlock, "I think we're done here." She walked away. Sherlock turned to his companions, shook his head at them and with a sigh of disapproval took off his own gloves and followed after Joan.

Bell and the Captain stood and stared after them. Bell cleared his throat, "Notice that while they denied the fact, they did not deny the possibility?"

"Yup." Gregson smiled and looked at Bell, "But I think we've known that probably longer than they have."

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

"Watson, Watson, wait up!"

Joan stopped and faced him. He pulled her from the middle of the crowded sidewalk into the doorway of a closed shop. Sherlock's tone changed as he studied her face. "You're angry. That's understandable. Gregson and Bell were way out of line."

"And you're flippant attitude didn't help," her calm voice belied her anger.

"And my flippant attitude didn't help, you're right." Sherlock continued, "We have had a very ..." he searched for the best descriptor. "A very action packed 24 hours, yes?"

She nodded and tried to hide the smile at his choice of words. He was right. Yesterday at this time they were beneath the oak, alone, in a world populated solely by their desires. Now every move they made would be colored by those moments, be it good or bad. Each step taken would require thought, negotiation.

"Let's take it slow for awhile, hmm? ... Cut ourselves some slack and see where this all takes us." He found her hand and she held on. When did he become the reasonable one she thought. She lost her anger in his eyes.

"Home," she stated more than asked. "Home." He answered.

-/-/-/-/-

The awkwardness that stood tenaciously between them at first, graciously stepped aside after a day or two. Love had always lived with them, the difference being now it was acknowledged and accepted as a member of the household, though Sherlock still refused to use the word. An absent-minded morning kiss from him as she shuffled in for tea, an arm slung round her shoulder as they made their way upstairs, crawling quietly into bed late at night so as not to wake her, all enunciated the word to her that he verbally could not. Neither were the sort to cling on to each other and certainly never in public, but the small gestures were always there to assure they were alright. The bickering and the arguments continued, it was part of who they were and would never change.

-/-/-/-/-/-

Joan stood under their tree waiting for him, unsure why "Sean" had called her here. They'd not been back to the tree in quite some time. She saw Sherlock coming towards her, his cocky walk signaling to her he was feeling a bit nervous - he tended to overcompensate when insecure.

He strode up to her not stopping until her back was up against the tree and her arms came up and around his neck. She smiled at him as he pressed his body close to hers. They kissed the way they never did in public.

Breathless, he stopped and pushed himself away from her. Sherlock reached into his pocket, took something out but held it tightly in his hand. He took a deep breath, looking down at his hand for a second before his eyes locked onto hers.

"Do you believe in love at first sight? I know what you're thinking; the world is a cynical place and I must be a cynical man, thinking a woman like you would fall for a line like that. Thing is, it isn't a line. So please hear me when I say this, I have never loved anyone as I do you right now in this moment."

Joan was just as mesmerized as she had been the first time he said those words to her.

Sherlock looked at her and whispered, "I mean it this time. ... Today makes two years since you walked into my life. I just wanted to express my gratitude to you for not leaving the many, many times I gave you ample reason to walk away ..." He gave here a small nervous smile. His closed hand came up between them. "I had these made for you, for us..."

His hand opened to reveal two rings of carved wood. "Oak." He nodded his head "Our oak." Tears were blurring her vision but she reached for the rings. "The craftsman said the wood is strong but it is wood and it will wear down and change with age. I told him it would not matter, we too will wear down and change with age but the sentiment will never age, will never change."

Sherlock took the ring from her hand and put it on her finger. Joan did the same with his.

"Let me be clear, you know my views on marriage, Watson, these in no way are ..."

She shut him up with a kiss.


End file.
